By Donato Martinez
Drunk Tíos
Hardened men pour out when the sun sets
battle-bruised, hunched over, and coughing up residue
after inhaling dangerous chemicals
from working in unsafe conditions and poor ventilation
These men -- our fathers
our tíos
compadres
factory workers
mechanics
ditch diggers
gardeners
piscadores
cement sewer pipe builders
roofers
Dust on their backs
sweat on their foreheads
permanent oil smudges between nails and skin
and muscles and veins bulge from their arms
Their cracked
calloused
cut
bruised
pinched
battered hands
have rarely held a pencil
but now they grasp a 40 ounce in a brown paper sack
The first bitter taste of alcohol
burns their throat
but slides like honey
they listen to some old Spanish songs that crack from muffled speakers
of their old, beat-up Silverado in their driveway
this quiet moment of peace
before walking into the chaos of the house
because children need new school clothes and backpacks
and their mujeres need new shoes
Other tíos stumble into old cantinas
dance with ficheras
smoke half a pack of cigarettes
and slump over the bar
And past the lingering, burning clouds of smoke
among chatter, laughter, and loud norteño music
his sobrino musters all the courage of a scrawny freckled face mocosillo
“Vamos tío. My tía is waiting for you in the car. Está enojada”
Tío is finally laying across the ripped back seat
of the passed down Toyota Tercel
the stench of alcohol and cigarettes permeates the car
between sniffles and deep breaths
and whimpering like a scolded child, he says,
“I love you mujer. Perdóname.”
“I know. I won’t go again.”
“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.”
His words etching promises . . . again
tears are streaming down his face
and for once
he is shredding his masculinity like peeling layers of old skin from his working hands.
I Used To Work at a Liquor Store
I used to work at a liquor store when I was young
Stocking and stuffing the ice cooler with beer bottles and aluminum cans
I was mesmerized by the colorful liquor bottles behind the counter
Too expensive for a poor kid
My favorite was the dark liquid in a green bottle
. . . And tonight I think of you
I remember the laughter erupting from our throats
Maybe because of the many drinks I shared with you
Yours were fruity and colorful and sweet
And mine were dark and sour and bitter
Whiskey that burned my throat
But I was happy because I would see two of you when I drank
It would be nice if you thought of me tonight on my birthday
Called me
Even though I hate birthdays
Because they remind me of my sadness
And no one understands it
Except the falling star in the night sky.
The solo guitar strumming in the early hours
The heavy ripe fruit that falls from its tree
Only to be forgotten or trampled
The alcoholic street vagrants
The woman fingering her change while waiting for a bus
Or the child’s streaming tears, missing her mother for weeks now
I am all the sad music
Crushing in my bones
I am the promises from your lips that never came
I am the end of the book that never should be finished.
I wait for you
Again and again
Night after night
If only to hear your voice so that it soothes my loneliness
Tonight . . . I might forgive you for the hurt
I might even let you hold my hand
To watch our bare feet leave imprints on the damp sand
But you will not call.
I know this.
So tonight I will let the alcohol burn my throat again.
One drink to remember.
And one drink to forget.
Donato Martinez teaches English composition, Literature, and Creative Writing at Santa Ana College. He hosts and curates a bi-annual afternoon of artistic expression with poetry, dance, and live music. These events generate large crowds and active participation. He is also a poet and writes about his barrio upbringing, his community, his culture, his bi-cultural and bilingual identities and other complexities of life. He is influenced by the sounds and pulse of the streets, people, music, and the magic of language. He has a self-published collection with three other Inland Empire poets, Tacos de Lengua. His work has been published by City Works, Eastside Rose, Acentos Review, The San Diego Poetry Annual, and Ofrenda Magazine. Forthcoming publications will appear in La Raiz Magazine. He loves the outdoors and is inspired by music, books, movies, and his children, Gabriel and Abigail.